From The City That Always Sweeps

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Art Kumbalek - Fall Leaves

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s now September I hear, and what a melodic song of a month it should be, you think?

For starters, the predicted autumn leaves are about to fall, and as I’ve said before, for a guy like me that can only mean that the summertime is finally soon to dwindle and crumble and about time for crying out loud, what with the heat, humidity/dewpoint, noisy racket and outdoor insects that seem to find their way inside. Can’t use it, I kid you not.

September, already? Seems to me like it was just August, and now out of nowhere we’re into the ninth month of the year? (Although, through a tad of research, I found this: As to the “Old English from Latin: the seventh (month) according to the original calendar of ancient Rome, from septem seven.” That means that September, technically, ought to be the seventh month of the year and not the ninth. Jesus H. Christ, my head spinneth, I was never good at math, forsooth.

September, “harvest month,” according to 8th-9th century “King of the Franks” and elephant aficionado Charlemagne’s calendar, so I’ve heard.

Calendars. Seems like every Tom, Dick and Dickless had some kind of calendar amongst the mighty powerful back in those olden days, ain’a?

Cripes, you had your Julian calendar, your Gregorian calendar and who-knows-what-the-fock calendar, many perhaps to figure which day of which month is the one saintly designated to toss a virgin (female, I’m guessing) into the mouth of a volcano or what-not, so’s to assist the success of some kind of harvest of this crop or that.

But good lord, I hear “the days grow short when you reach September.” Indeed they do, especially if you use a year as a metaphor for the entirety of one’s time allowed on this so-called earthly mortal coil (seems I’m in my late November), what the fock.

September’s upsides? Let me tell you’s.

You got your Labor Day, a Monday holiday when we honor the workingman by pissing the day away drinking somebody else’s beer in some in-law’s backyard or a picnic park somewheres. Hey, how ’bout next year instead we pay tribute to our blue-collar people by working twice as hard and twice as long that day? Huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Yes sir, the last extended weekend of the summer; and just so’s you know, I happen to believe that if your free-will choice involves the secluded spectacle of outdoor camping out in the boon-focking-docks to celebrate summertime’s denouement, that is a notion that not only flies to the face of the natural course of human evolution but may also be some kind of unnamed perversion to boot, just so you know.

Another upside, perhaps? Lord Football kicks-off another interminable pigskin season that will grind its way into February 2027, we should live so long. Our beloved Green & Gold begins their slog by kicking Viking ass up in Minnesota “Land of Way More than 10,000 Candy-ass Leakers” on September 13.

But do you’s remember regarding this ba-dee-ya month that’s certain to be full of earth, wind and fire, that there is one downside to September, at least for me?

A September downside?

As you may recall, perennially, there is a downside for me, and that is when I hear the words “back to school.” To this ever-loving day I still get the heebie-jeebies from way back in time when I was to be sentenced to another stint to be served at Our Lady In Pain Because You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough. I believe it’s called Back-To-School-Syndrome, and it’s not uncommon amongst us veteran survivors of the old-school parochial school system, I kid you not.

I’ve heard that a symptom of the syndrome is an overwhelming urge to skip out of doing something you don’t feel like doing. I brought this up to my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine over a couple, three Lakefront Riverwest Steins the other night who set me straight and eased my mind. He said, “Artie, I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty that this need to skip out of stuff is some kind of misguided attempt to recapture the temporary joy you experienced as a lad whenever you skipped goddamn school. Yes, you were partaking in at-risk behavior, in that you could’ve been run over by a school bus while attempting to duck the truant officer. But big focking deal. Life is temporary. At least you would’ve died doing what you loved best—focking off.” Thank you, Jimmy.

What else to say? This: Go Brewers! Go Pack! Go your constitutional ability to vote!

Okey-doke, Genug ist genug, and as the song says, “When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame,” I hope these precious days serve you well, today, tomorrow and forward, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

ad are the directions on a can of bug spray. So what the fock, I’m declaring my independence from delivering my regular in-depth essay this month so’s to dip into Artie’s Joke Satchel ’cause in the course of the oppressive and depressing human events these days, we could all use a smile, a chuckle, a laugh, I kid you not. So let’s get to dipping, shall we?

How ’bout this one? A chicken and egg are lying in bed. The chicken’s smoking a cigarette, satisfied smile on its face while the egg is frowning, frustrated. The egg says icily, “Well! I guess that settles THAT question, ain’a?” Ba-ding!

How’s your health care situation? This guy named Jerry was in the hospital, near death, so the family sent for his pastor. As the pastor stood beside the bed, Jerry’s frail condition grew worse, and he motioned desperately for something to write on. The pastor lovingly handed him a pen and piece of paper, and Jerry used his last ounce of strength to quickly scribble a note and then died.

The pastor thought it best not to look at the note just then, so he slipped it into his pocket. Several days later at the funeral, the pastor delivered the eulogy and realized he was wearing the same jacket he’d worn the day Jerry died.

“You know, Jerry handed me a note just before he passed,” the pastor said to the assembled. “I haven’t read it, but knowing Jerry, I believe surely that it would contain a word of inspiration—a word of inspiration for us all.”

The pastor reached into his pocket, unfolded Jerry’s note and read aloud, “Help me! You’re standing on my oxygen tube, jackass!” Ba-ding!

The golden years: Four well-to-do retired guys take an early afternoon stroll in sunny Sarasota, Florida, when they see a sign: “Old Timer’s Bar: ALL DRINKS 10 CENTS!” And so, they enter.

Bartender says “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” They all ask for a martini. In short order, the bartender serves up four iced martinis and says, “That’ll be 10 cents each, please.”

The four retirees can’t believe their good fortune. They pay the 40 cents, finish their martinis, and order another round. Again, four martinis are produced, and the bartender says, “Forty cents, please.” They pay the tab, but their curiosity is more than they can stand. They’ve each had two martinis, and so far they’ve spent less than a dollar. One asks, “How can you afford to serve martinis as good as these for a dime apiece?”

Bartender says: “I’m a retired tailor from Brooklyn and always wanted to own a bar. Last year I hit the lottery for $50 million and decided to open this place. Every drink costs a dime—wine, liquor, beer, all the same.”

“That’s quite a story,” one of the men says. Sipping their martinis, they couldn’t help but notice three other older fellas at the end of the bar who didn’t have a drink in front of them and hadn’t ordered anything the entire time they were there.

One man gestures at the three drinkless guys and asks the bartender, “What’s with them?” Bartender says, “Cheapskates from Milwaukee. They’re waiting for happy hour.” Ba-ding!

Okey-doke, I got to go and secure my case of Old Grand-Dad for the froth of July—talk about a bottle rocket that will give 80% proof through the night ’til the dawn’s early light.

Hope you have/had spectacular Fourth, that the corn of your choosing is as high as an elephant’s ear and that you be gallant through the perilous fight with the third-world heat and humidity of our Midwestern July so that come August 1, your patriotic digits and assorted body parts remain attached and functional so’s you can reconnoiter a ballot box come November, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.